Venetian Masks (10 page)

“You could, yes. But this way we can watch them make the damn things. Besides, the island’s worth a visit for its own sake.”

“Okay.”

They watched a couple of glassmakers. Jeff had to pay a few euro coins for the privilege, but it was fun. Then Cleve took him through a quiet residential area to what seemed to be the island’s commercial center. It resembled the city of Venice, with canals, boats, bridges, and of course, jewelry shops. But it was smaller, more laid-back. Less crowded. A nice place for a pleasant stroll. Cleve didn’t point out any sights here, which was fine. Jeff discovered he enjoyed even the guy’s quiet companionship, especially the frequent smiling glances his way.

“Earrings, huh?” Cleve said after a while. “In here.”

They entered a shop that looked a little more high-end than average, with glassware arranged in tasteful and stylish displays. As soon as they entered, a statuesque blonde in a brown suit approached them. “May I help you?” she asked, apparently identifying Jeff’s nationality as easily as Cleve had.

Cleve pointed a thumb at Jeff. “Mom earrings.”

“Of course.” She turned to Jeff. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“Um, she said yellow or green.”

“Do you think she would prefer something classic, or perhaps a more modern design?”

He thought about that one for a while, trying to picture the kinds of stuff his mother wore. He never really paid that much attention, to tell the truth. “Maybe something sort of in between?”

She had a sexy, kind of husky laugh. “Very well. Please let me show you some possibilities.” She motioned the men to a pair of plush chairs in front of a marble table and then spent several minutes sailing around the shop, picking up this and that. When she returned to sit opposite them, she had a dozen pairs of earrings that she arranged carefully on the tabletop.

Jeff squinted at them, imagining them hanging from his mother’s ears. They were all really nice, and he was pretty sure she’d like any of them, but finally he pointed at one pair. They were sort of amber-colored, although the beads had several shades of yellow swirled together, and the metal posts had a sort of filigree design. “These?” he said hesitantly.

“Excellent choice,” said the saleswoman. She probably would have said that about whatever he picked. He handed over sixty euros, and she wrapped his purchase in a box and fancy paper, then placed it in a paper bag.

Cleve took them to a little restaurant tucked into a side street. He ordered them pasta and wine and leaned back in his cushioned chair. “Your mom’s pretty special to you, huh?”

“Well, I guess. I mean, she’s my mom.”

“You get along with your dad too?”

“Most of the time. As long as we avoid the topics of baseball and the state legislature.”

Cleve smiled, but there was something sad and faraway in his eyes. “They know you’re gay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And they’re cool with it?”

Jeff had known he liked boys since he was in his midteens. But in high school it had seemed easier to date girls—not that he did much of that, really. He’d remained a virgin until his sophomore year in college, when he struck up a friendship with a guy in his poli-sci class. Theo was president of the campus Rainbow Alliance and wasn’t really Jeff’s type—too light and slender and… bouncy. But he was a nice kid, and he seemed to know every gay boy in town. He introduced Jeff to a world that Jeff had barely known existed, and patiently set him up with a succession of men. Jeff didn’t stay a virgin for very long. After several weeks of anxiety, he came out to his parents over Thanksgiving weekend. His mother smiled and said, “As long as you’re happy, darling,” and his father mortified him by reminding him to have safe sex, and that was it.

“They’re cool,” Jeff said in response to Cleve’s question. “I think Mom’s still hoping for grandkids, though.”

“Lots of queers have kids nowadays.”

“Mainly if they have partners. I don’t want to be a single parent.”

Cleve narrowed his eyes a little. “You’ll get a partner.”

Jeff snorted. “Like Kyle? ’Cause that didn’t work out so well.”

“Yeah, but that’s ’cause Kyle’s an ass hat, remember?”

They ate their noodles in silence for a while—they were really good noodles—and drank their wine. Jeff surprised even himself when he suddenly asked, “What about your folks?”

“What about them?” Cleve asked, frowning deeply.

“Are they okay with you being gay? Um… I’m sorta assuming… after that kiss….” He was blushing again.

“Yeah, I’m queer as a three-dollar bill. And my family is not okay with that.”

For no reason he could name, Jeff pushed a little harder. “Which family is that? History teacher or mechanic?”

Cleve set his fork down and compressed his lips into a thin line. He stared at some point a few feet to Jeff’s side; maybe the weird blue glass sculpture that hung on the brick wall. “My
step
dad is a long-haul trucker, and Mom used to work at a grocery store. Neither of them wants anything to do with their faggot son.”

Jeff was somehow certain that these words were the truth, and they made his guts twist. He knew people like that—people whose families rejected them because of their sexual orientation—and even the thought of it made him feel sick and desperate. If his own parents didn’t love him, what would he have? “What about brothers and sisters?” he asked quietly.

“Them either.”

Jeff took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, they’re ass hats too.”

Cleve finally looked at him again, and this time there was something soft and questioning in his eyes, as if he’d discovered something unexpected. Then, with visible effort, he straightened his shoulders and picked up his fork. “Yeah,” he said huskily.

T
HEY
had gelato after lunch. Jeff had never eaten so much ice cream in his life. He refused, however, to try the
malaga
flavor, which Cleve explained was rum raisin. Jeff had hated raisins since he was a kid, so he chose pistachio instead.

They reboarded the
vaporetto
but got off before they reached the main island. “What’s this?” Jeff asked as they walked along a cement walkway. A pinkish brick wall was on one side of them and the lagoon on the other. They’d spent a longer time on Murano than he had realized, and the sun was angling low over the water. The wind had kicked up a little more too, and he was shivering a bit in his jacket.

“Isola di San Michele.”

Jeff had to strain a little to hear Cleve’s voice, and not just because of the wind. His guide had been subdued ever since lunch. Jeff wondered if he was angry or upset over the questions about his family, but then Cleve was the one who’d raised the subject first. And anyway, his expression when he met Jeff’s eyes—which wasn’t often—didn’t seem hostile. Just… pensive. Maybe a little melancholy.

“And what’s there to see here?” Jeff asked.

Cleve gave a small smile. “I see dead people.”

They passed through a pair of large metal gates, and Jeff realized what Cleve meant. They were in an enormous cemetery, one that seemed to contain a complexity of buildings and arcades and courtyards, with towering cypress trees standing sentinel here and there. Cleve made a sort of sweeping gesture with his arm. “This is the end of the line for a lot of Venetians. Well, sort of. When they run out of room in the ground, they dig up the bones and store them somewhere to make room for new dead people.”

“Ew.”

Cleve shrugged. “Could be worse. Venetians used to stick their stiffs all over town, which wasn’t such a great idea on a little island that floods all the time.” Their feet crunched softly on the crushed-stone pathway as they walked. “When Napoleon’s men showed up in town, they convinced the locals to kind of export their corpses. More hygienic, I guess—less chance of Great-aunt Maria popping up next time it rains.”

“Ew,” Jeff repeated, but this time he laughed as well.

They wandered for a while, puzzling out inscriptions in the fading light—people dead from wars and old age and disease. It was a peaceful place. Jeff didn’t see anyone else there at all, although once he caught some faint voices on the wind. He hadn’t been in a cemetery since he was fifteen years old. Half his life ago, he was startled to realize. Maybe when he got back to California, he’d be brave enough to go again, now that he saw how a place of rest could actually
be
restful, and beautiful, and not really morbid at all.

They were both quiet on the brief ride back to Fondamente Nove.

“You’re gonna fire my ass now, aren’t you?” Cleve said resignedly when they reached shore.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jeff said, and Cleve blinked at him in surprise.

“I wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs this afternoon.”

Jeff smiled at him. “It’s okay. You’re my guide, not my private jester.”

Cleve’s shoulders relaxed, and for the first time in hours, his cocky smile spread across his face. “Let’s go have some dinner, pal.”

C
LEVE
perked up a little over their meal, which was a simple one: pizza slices eaten while leaning up against a medieval wall. Jeff learned that
peperoni
meant “peppers” in Italian, not the meaty version of pepperoni that he knew, but he didn’t mind very much. He liked watching Cleve eat, especially now that he knew how that sensual mouth felt, how it tasted. They went to a wine bar for a couple of glasses of white wine, along with a few tiny plates of fishy things. The waiter obviously knew Cleve, but Jeff didn’t like the way the man smirked at him.

“Sorry,” Cleve said when the waiter was elsewhere.

“What’s his problem?”

“He thinks you’ve hired me for fucking.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Jeff asked, confused.

“Not really. I mean, if you were paying me for it, you’d be the chump, wouldn’t you?”

“How so?”

“’Cause I’d be getting my rocks off with a hunky guy
and
I’d be filling my pockets. And you’d be emptying yours when you could screw all you want for free.”

Jeff blinked. “I could?” He wasn’t sure he was following the conversation very well.

“’Course, dude! Maybe the ass-hat ex has been acting as a blinder for you, but you’re pretty damn easy on the eyes. I doubt you’d have any trouble getting laid if you put a bit of effort into it.”

Jeff never really thought of himself as good-looking. Back in his college days, he’d had sex as often as he wanted it, but he was hanging out with other guys his age, and playing hard to get wasn’t exactly anyone’s game. Then there was Kyle, and Jeff stopped noticing whether other men were noticing. That was important to him, even if it wasn’t to Kyle. Jeff had been faithful in spirit as well as in the flesh. “I told you you’re hired for tomorrow. You can cut the sweet talk,” he said.

But Cleve only smiled and snagged the last sardine.

Jeff was tipsy by the time they left the bar. Not drunk, but a little giddy and clumsy, and he didn’t feel the chill in the air anymore. Cleve wrapped an arm around one of Jeff’s, which didn’t help steady either of them. On some of the narrowest streets, they had to walk almost sideways.

As they approached Jeff’s
campo
, he was hoping for another kiss. They stopped and he paid his guide. Then he held his breath as Cleve twisted around to run his thumb along Jeff’s jawline, but although Cleve’s gaze was heated, he didn’t lean forward to lock lips. Instead, he cocked his head a little. “You staying here?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the time-share’s entrance.

After briefly considering lying—what if Cleve was up to something; what if this had been his plan all along?—Jeff nodded.

“Never been in there. Wanna show me what it looks like?”

Jeff’s throat went dry. “Um… yeah.”

The hour was late enough that Jeff had to let them into the building with his key, and nobody was manning the desk. He was slightly relieved for that, although it certainly wasn’t Mita’s or anyone else’s business whom he brought to his apartment. Cleve shuffled along at Jeff’s side, seemingly content for the moment to let Jeff be the guide.

Inside the apartment, Cleve took a quick look around. “Nice,” he said. Jeff was still standing awkwardly in the entryway. “But you haven’t been using your kitchen much.”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“Me neither. Never really…. I don’t usually have the chance.” That sorrowful expression flitted across his face but was replaced quickly by a heavy-lidded grin. “I have other skills, though.” He closed the distance between them, and this time he did kiss Jeff. Not long and hard like the night before; this was almost a tease. But he also stroked Jeff’s hair with one hand and squeezed his shoulder with the other, and those touches felt very real.

When Cleve pulled away slightly, Jeff couldn’t help but ask, “Do you do this with all the guys who hire you?”

To Jeff’s surprise, Cleve’s response wasn’t anger or even a joke, but instead a very sad little smile and a shake of the head. “No, baby. I don’t.”

Kyle wasn’t much for using pet names. Sometimes he called Jeff “Jaws,” a slightly strained pun on his last name, or sometimes just “J.” Never “baby” or “sweetheart” or anything like that. And although Jeff
knew
this was all some kind of act on Cleve’s part—it had to be some way of getting whatever it was he wanted from Jeff—the endearment still made his throat feel thick.

“I…,” Jeff began. He wasn’t sure how he was going to finish that sentence, and he never found out. Because suddenly Cleve pushed him firmly against the closed door, and this time they kissed so deeply it was as if they were trying to crawl into each other’s skin. Even after they broke the kiss to catch their breaths, Cleve didn’t move away. In fact, he pressed even more tightly against Jeff’s body, hands squeezing behind to grab Jeff’s ass. He mouthed at Jeff’s jaw, at his neck, he fucking licked inside the shell of his ear, and Jeff couldn’t help himself—he grabbed right back.

Jeff had already had the opportunity to ogle Cleve’s ass encased in tight denim, but touching it—squeezing it—was better. It was muscular, of course, and the more he squeezed, the more Cleve reciprocated, grinding their groins together in quiet desperation. Cleve’s leather jacket creaked as they moved.